Day 10: Newport Beach to San Diego

Day Mileage: 85

Trip Mileage: 619
Strava GPS Report

Most of my planning efforts centered around a couple of American Cycling Association maps. I bought two out of a series of five maps that go all the way down the continental US west coast. The first map (SF to Santa Barbara) featured a handy elevation profile that let me know what I was getting into from day to day. This was great for climbing-heavy days like Big Sur, and the hills before Santa Barbara. The next map (Santa Barbara to Imperial Beach) had no such information. The fact that they didn't include the information said one thing to me (at the time): "You're not going to be doing a lot of climbing from here-on-out." What it *should* have said to me was: "You're not going to be climbing any obnoxiously large hills from here-on-out." 

Those two statements are different in one very important way: You don't have to climb high to do a lot of climbing. 

LA to San Diego was not an easy 85 miles. I struggle to call any of the climbs "hard"... but HOLY HELL were there a lot of them. I think the flattest mile of this ride was in La Jolla (at the top of that Teton-looking map feature around mile 70). 

Alicia and Will fed me a solid breakfast, and jettisoned me down to Newport Beach, strategically skipping a couple dozen miles of urban LA. It was good to see them, and I hope to see them again in the near-future. 

It didn't take long for me to route myself southward. The coastal highway either had an ample bike lane, or a sizable shoulder for most of the way. Once in a while, I would be routed through a small "downtown" drag... where I'd be exposed to expensive cars piloted by hostile old ladies... but I remained unscathed. 

  

When I rolled into San Clemente, my route started going crazy, so I popped into a coffee shop to look at my maps and "fuel up." I noticed that the guy ahead of me in line was a (former?) aryan brotherhood member. This isn't uncommon, but seeing this burly guy with swastikas tattooed all over his body order a caramel frappe ( + whip) didn't fit with the stereotype.

After weaving my way through San Clemente, I eventually rolled through Camp Pendleton. I was kind of surprised that the base allowed random cyclists to just roll through the base. That said, they did have a pretty draconian list of "cycling rules" posted right at the gate. 

A random, unencumbered, cyclist tagged along with me through this stretch. He was fairly amused at my setup, and honestly, overall, a nice enough guy, but it quickly became apparent that he had never spent any time in the service. One of the clearly-posted rules from the way in was "all cyclists must ride single file at all times." In no way is that rule unclear. This clown kept pulling riiiight up next to me to chat. Given my previous run-ins with the civilian 5-0, I didn't feel like wilfully attracting the attention of the marine corps MPs. By the third time he pulled up, I just got frustrated, bit the bullet, and just plowed ahead faster than he was riding. Jackass. 

I did get to see a random tank pull up to a gas station to fuel up. I mean, sure, they've got to fuel up and all, but it's just funny seeing a dude at a gas station with a gigantic tank. (The Air Force doesn't have tanks, so these are still a novelty to me.) 

I exited Camp Pendleton almost as fast as I entered, and I was soon rolling through the run-down town of Oceanside, CA. Lots of shady-looking "MILITARY DISCOUNT! NO MONEY DOWN!" car lots, low-rent restaurants, pay-day loan centers, and a single hostile camro-owner. 

In what felt like to time at all, I found myself in Carlsbad. It was a pleasant ride from here to Torrey Pines / La Jolla, if not for this gigantic running meetup. I recall being at a red light when a few bros decided to run across the street. When a truck with the right-away (understandably) honked in objection, these idiots screamed "FUCK YOU!!!" at the top of their lungs. It was just... stupid. When I rolled by a few seconds later I said:  "Let us know how the whole self-entitled jackass thing works out for you." They responded accordingly. Like I said yesterday, this part of the country is wasted on some of its shittiest people.

As I trudged forward and the shadows grew larger, I overcame that giant hill in La Jolla, and found myself in San Diego proper. I had eaten a few snacks throughout the ride, but by now I was positively starving. 

My buddy (and UNLV office mate) Marvin met up with me in Little Italy. We found this pizza place that sold pizzas either "by the slice" or by the pizza. We ordered a gigantic pizza... I ate way more than half, and talked math for a few hours. 

I had budgeted three hotel stays into this trip --of which, until tonight, I had used zero. I used an app called "Hotel Tonight" to find a fairly inexpensive hotel nearby. After today's ride, I kind of needed a civilized shower and bed. Tomorrow: the border. 

Day 9: McGrath State Beach (Ventura) to Venice Beach

Day Mileage: 60

Trip Mileage: 534
Strava GPS Report

When I woke up, McGrath State Park was as gloomy as when I arrived --I guess they all can't be Refugio. The group assembled, and made our way through Oxnard to find a servicable cup of coffee. 

The road to the PCH was very flat and deceptively long. After passing a few fruit stands, I saw my first sod farm, which was sort of disconcerting at first. I guess I always knew that those big rolls of sod had to come from somewhere, but seeing hundreds and hundreds of acres of perfect "lawn" was really weird among the fruit farms. The sight might very well have brought a tear to the eye of even the crotchetiest of old men.

The scenery was a lot like what I grew up around in rural Missouri. I remember going for a run in high school, setting out, and seeing a tree off in the distance. That tree never seemed to budge. No matter how long I ran, I never ever seemed to make it to that tree. On this morning, the PCH was that tree. You could seriously see it for miles... but never seemed to gain any ground. 

Rest assured, I did finally make it to the PCH. After rounding the corner southward, I came across this little "museum piece" of old jets and rockets (complements of the US Navy). I defiantly whistled the Air Force Song as I rolled by. 

As I inched toward Malibu, the gloom finally started to break away. The scenery also started to improve. (There's really only so many sod farms and naval bases one man can handle.)

In what felt like no time at all, I crossed into Los Angeles County. Make no mistake, I was in Southern California... and the locals seemed hell-bent on reminding me of (by way of rampant, unchecked hostility) with every passing mile. Malibu really is a pretty place, but it seems to be wasted on some of the area's worst people. 

We continued southward for what felt like an eternity (25~miles). After obliterating a foot-long subway chicken sandwich, we finally arrived in Santa Monica. With  Santa Monica came the hordes of people and excessive direct sunlight. 

I took a moment to celebrate my arrival to the Los Angeles metro area, but this was a somber moment. My riding buddies: Marcia, Tricia, and Joe all had separate plans for the latter half of the day --which meant we were going to part ways. You really couldn't have asked for a better group of people; agreeable, funny, and capable. I really hope to run into them again some point in the future. Best of luck to you all. It was an absolute pleasure.

I loosely made plans to meet up with my LA friends for dinner late in the evening. However, as with any group of far-flung friends that didn't know each other, getting them into a room together would prove easier said than done. It was early, however... and I had time to kill. 

I've deliberately avoided mentioning (in great detail) how badly my hands were bothering me at this point. That day without gloves in Big Sur really messed me up. I stopped at a coffee shop near Venice Beach to find a bike shop to pick up even thicker gloves and an extra roll of bar tape. 

As I was heading to the bike shop, I ran into non-other than Nathan (from my second night at Brighton State Beach). It was a random-ass encounter, but I was glad to see he made it. 

I soon met up with several friends (old and new) for dinner at this rad Thai place (Jitlada) and catchings-up. 

Any place good enough for Matt Groening is good enough for me. That said, I did learn a VALUABLE lesson tonight: if you're going to order a spicy thai curry, make sure your lips aren't sunburnt. Guys, this is vital. 

After dinner, an old friend from the Air Force, Will, and his girlfriend Alicia, graciously put me up for the night. I'm going to take my first (much-needed) rest day of the trip, tomorrow. 

Day 8: Refugio State Beach (Santa Barbara) to McGrath State Beach(Ventura)

Day Mileage: 66

Trip Mileage: 474
Strava GPS Report

I'm pretty sure I understated just how good last night's campground was. It was so good that it made me want to live in Santa Barbara, if only so that I could bike there and camp cheaply whenever I wanted. Guys... it was incredible. Scenery-wise, I put it on par with Pfieffer Big Sur. Sure, Refugio is more crowded, but you honestly wouldn't care.

Back in San Simeon, I ran into these younger guys headed from the Bay Area to Santa Barbara. I actually ran into them again at Refugio --a mere 20 miles from their final destination. They were really cool, so it was cool to be able to see them off. Best of luck, guys. 

As I was eating breakfast, I was looking down at my (now awesome) tan line on my leg when I realized that, even after layering on the sunblock for days-on-end, I had managed to sun-bleach my leg hair. I never occurred to me that you could even do that. 

After that shocking revelation, a group I had sort of linked up with decided we should get lunch in Santa Barbara. If I haven't mentioned them before, they're four different people riding at about my pace -- a couple of nice ladies from Michigan riding from Vancouver to Mexico, and two guys from LA headed from the Bay Area to LA. We'd wound up at the same camp sites for several nights in a row, so we exchanged numbers a few days ago and kept each other posted of our general whereabouts. 

We rode mostly as a group down the 101, through Goleta, and eventually into SB-proper. 

I've got a good friend that went to college in Santa Barbara. If given the opportunity, he'd talk your ear off about how much he liked it there. Somehow, after all that lip-service, he managed to sell it short. Guys, this place is rad. 

The place we went to was a nondescript "beer" bar called Brew Haus (get it?) I ordered a belgian ale and a steak sandwich. A word in that order that I'm going to repeat is *sandwich* because when I got my plate, I didn't realize that word had an entirely different meaning in Santa Barbara Brew Haus...es. 

You see that tiny sliver of bread under the gigantic steak? That's what classifies this meal as a sandwich. It's sort of like how riverboat casinos in the midwest are technically "boats" because they're built up inside these tiny tiny moats that go around them. Of course I didn't complain, because I sort of needed the protein after yesterday's climb-fest. The horrified look on Joe's face (green shirt, below) as I inhaled that steak will stick with me forever.

Once that meal went down, one our teammates, Chuck, (7-Eleven) decided that he wanted to do an 80 mile day to get back to LA a day sooner. Later Chuck. 

We were soon on our way to Ventura. It was mostly easy, if not kind of boring for a while. Lots of windy town bike lanes keeping us off the 101 freeway. After a few miles, the route put us on the shoulder of the *northbound* 101, but behind a protective barrier. It's a pretty ride, but not entirely noteworthy. 

When I landed in Ventura, I noticed I had an awesome chain-tattoo:

...and for my RRC friends: (taken in Ventura)

Shit was getting gloomy as I rolled toward McGrath state beach. It got sort of chilly, but nothing intolerable. The campsite is a little austere compared last night, which bummed me out, but after a shower, I realized I didn't care as much. 

I'm going to Venice, tomorrow. A friend of mine is going to pick me up, and I'll meet up with a few friends for dinner. I may even take a rest day since I've never actually ridden 530-540 miles in nine days, before. I don't feel particularly exhausted, outside of muscle fatigue and some nasty hand numbness. I could probably use the rest, anyway.

Day 7: Oceano to Refugio State Beach

Day Mileage: 85

Trip Mileage: 408
Strava GPS Report

I'm not going to bullshit you --today was kind of boring. It was the longest day I've done yet, only because I wanted to plow through the hills before Santa Barbara in one go. 

I woke up at some unfortunate hour this morning due to a freight train blasting by the camp site. I could have hit it with a rock from where I was sleeping. I did manage to fall back asleep, but not as soundly. 

I got a late start because I had to stay in town for a few hours to dial into a meeting for work. I popped back into Red Dirt (the same place that gracefully helped point me in the right direction last night). I had a spam breakfast burrito. I now wish I had the presence of mind to snap a picture.

When I finally did hit the road, I hit a few small hills almost immediately. On the way to Guadalupe, there was a small town called "Mesa" nestled into what I can only assume was... a mesa... given how the climb felt at the time. Inexplicably, there was a giant pile of cabbage heads just rotting next to part of the highway. 

Heads rolled... two or three days ago. 

I stopped in Guadalupe for only a second to apply sunscreen and stock up on water. I didn't want to stay long. That town kind of bums me out. I saw an old guy put $6.00 into his gas tank. You see stuff llike that in the city sometimes and never really give it any thought... but in a dusty shithole like Guadalupe, it's hard to avoid thinking about it. 

The scenery didn't really help me in this regard. It's farmland. It's really... really hard to dress up farmland. 

Basically, it was variations on this picture for a few hours; though the farm workers seemed amused by me as I rode by. Eventually, there was a hill. That hill was long, straight, and easy to climb. That hill took me to Vandenburg AFB --a place I never really considered visiting (voluntarilly). 

FPCON: Radical

I rolled through a few rows of manicured trees, and down a sizable hill into Lompoc, CA --another place I thought I'd never visit voluntarily. 

I sped down the main drag, pulling off at a random gas station to get my bearings. Not four seconds into pulling out my map did this nice old dude wander out and say "Need directions!?" I really didn't, as I only had to make one incredibly well-marked turn, but he seemed really eager to help me out. 

I asked him where I could find a good sandwich in town, to which he pointed me to this unassuming little place just up the street: 

I had been craving a decent roast beef sandwich for a while. Not to mention one with horseradish mustard and a ginger beer. That sandwich went down faster than Frazier against Mike Tyson. I was out the door almost as fast as I came in, and slogged further down the 1. 

The hills were kind of pretty, but not Big Sur pretty. Honestly, this was the first day I wanted to listen to music during the ride. I made it through a few "Explosions in the Sky" records --not really listening to much else. Whenever my energy waned, one of those big-ass crescendos was there to lift me back up. 

Speaking of things "lifting me up" let's talk hills one last time:

Not one of those hills was as nasty as the wind past mile 70. I was getting, literally, destroyerd by crosswinds heading to / down the coast along the 101. I've joked before that "tail winds do not exist"... but when I moved along a curve in the road, one of those gusty crosswinds turned into a strong tailwind that I maintain lifted me up at least 10 feet of a 50 foot climb. I've never felt pushed like that before --thankfully it came at the end of the day, when I sort of needed it. 

My camp site is less than 100 feet from the water. I'm typing this looking at the milky way as waves crash by my feet. The cool wind is totally refreshing. It's a damn shame Vegas isn't on the coast. I'd like it more.

Day 6: San Simeon to Oceano State Park

Day Mileage: 60

Trip Mileage:  323
Strava GPS Report

Last night was low-stress. Sam Simeon State Park, despite its moratorium on showers, is a pretty nice little place. I did get a laugh at their choice of port-a-potty contractor, though: 

Somewhere, a guy named Harvey had a reaaal solid chuckle over the name of his business. I'll be sure to follow it on facebook. I bet he's rollin' in the dough now with the state on high-drought alert. 

Speaking of drought alerts, I stopped in Cambria to visit a bike shop (which was closed, unfortunately). I wandered into the coffee shop on their main drag, and got a big iced Americano to wake me up for the ride. Usually, in this situation, I ask if they'll top off my water bottles. I've never ever... ever seen or heard of a business say no to this. It's such a stupid/simple thing. The guy behind the counter said:

"Uhh... sorry, man, but because like... of the dought, we can't give away water." 

(You can't be fucking serious.) "What, really?"

"Yeah, man... you can buy bottles, though." 

"Nah, that's cool." 

The gas station at the end of the end of the street let me fill my bottles up from the soda fountain. What a fantastic load of bullshit. May the owner slip and fall into a Honeyhut™.

You know you're getting really into your biking groove when you're flying up and down hills, daydreaming. The day's scenery was actually pretty boring, but I barely noticed as I was fairly preoccupied in my own mind. I didn't realize this until I looked down to see 30 miles had passed. 

I was snapped out of it by shooting pain in my hands. I, tragically, lost my gloves somewhere before Big Sur. Those familiar with long bike rides will know that this, for some, can be a pretty big deal if ignored. I initially stopped into Cambria to pick up gloves, but the dude who runs the shop was out of town. (You can't begrudge the guy for wanting to leave, what with a town with a population south of 100, and the local coffee shop's proprietor being certifiably nuts.) Thankfully, in Morro Bay, the local shop "The Bike Works" had a pair handy. My hands still numb up a bit, but they'll sort themselves out in no time. 

Unsure of what a Beer Rock was, I trudged onward, eventually coming across a strange sequence of highway signs. 

Maybe it was the heat, maybe it was the boredom of having just yesterday covered 70 of the best miles the United States has to offer, but I found these signs hysterical. A few short miles after the Men's Colony, I arrived in SLO. Shit was cash. 

This town is off the chain. If I could stay longer, I would have. Sorry Trontz, I'll hit Firestone up next time I'm in town. 

I, somehow, by the grace of a higher being, managed to snag more free water in SLO before getting to Pismo Beach. When I posted this picture to Instagram/Facebook, I learned that I have all sorts of  friends: 

Derpy friends:

...and friends with a decent sense of humor:

Soon after landing in Pismo, I realized my camping opinons weren't as plentiful as the guide spelled out. I popped over to this cool little Hawaiian coffee shop called "Red Dirt" in Arroyo Grande (Big Ditch), California. A state park employee happened to be around while I was typing this up, so I know exactly where to go tonight. 

Tomorrow I'm going to ride into Lompoc. Hopefully, that'll be as enjoyable as today was. 

Day 5: Pfeiffer Big Sur to San Simeon

Day Milage: 73

Trip Milage: 263

Strava GPS Report

The key to good blogging is to not repeat yourself. Fuck that, let's talk hills again:

For the record, I'm no hill weenie. I rode a century in April that had a 1500' climb. For that ride, I used my light, agile, aluminum / carbon road bike. I don't know that bike's weight off the top of my head, but I'm willing to bet one of my paniers weighs more. 

These climbs were (somewhat) demoralizing. Granny-gearing for miles on end can suck the life out of you. They would have beat me had I not eaten my weight in pita bread, cheese, and hummus. I survived to ride another day. 

I woke up with the sun, and enjoyed a coffee at the little shop by Pfieffer. The coffee was much needed. In fact, it was so needed that I actually started to enjoy the weird reggae music they were playing. Those that know me well know that I can't handle reggae music. 

Morning lift blend, indeed. 

I started to plan out the logistics of the day. I was either going to stop at 30(ish) miles at another state park about half-way through Big Sur... or, depending on how I felt, soldier on to Sam Simeon.

This ride was stupefyingly beautiful. I could ride this every day of my life, and never ever get bored of it. For example, Red Rock Canyon is beautiful, right? Sure it is. This coastal route is way out of Red Rock's league. Comparing the two is sort of like comparing Casablanca to Beverly Hills Cop 2. BHC2 is a great movie; I quote it often, but it's not a classic like Casablanca. 

I eventually made it to my first civilized stop after leaving Big Sur: Lucia, CA. At town represented by one store, and a small hotel/cabin setup.

As luck would have it, the only public bathroom here also happened to be the only one for ten+ miles. It also had a sizable line. The fact that we all seemed to have to poop made the interaction kind of awkward. 

As I was making a few minor adjustments to my bike, I heard a man shout:

"Hey! Are you from Milwaukee!?" 

I looked up, and said:

"Well, sort of. I went to college there." 

He had noticed my UWM jersey. I went on to mention that most of my paternal family lived in Janesville, WI... he and his wife nodded saying that they-too had lived in Janesville for some time. After mentioning my last name, they quickly said that they knew two girls around my age from Janesville with my last name. Turns out, those two girls were my cousins Megan and Jackie. They happen to be good friends with Jackie's boyfriend Seth. 

After saying "farewell," it occurred to me that I had actually eaten lunch at this exact restaurant with Jackie when we drove down the PCH together. They've since painted it, but that's two interesting coincidences involving the same person. (I hope you're reading this, Jackie.) 

Some time later, after passing the small town of Gorda, I started up the final of the "big" climbs of the day. I noticed a small car with Nevada plates pulling into a scenic overlook. A young couple hopped out of the car, and I said: "Hey, what part of Nevada are you from?" They looked flummoxed by my question. Standing firm in my initial assumption that this isn't a creepy quesiton, I repeated: "What part of Nevada are you guys from?" They responded in a thick German accent: "Vee just vented dis cahr." 

I guess that could have gone worse. 

I was releived to finally coast out of the mountains and into the central California low-lands. In no time, I started seeing signs for San Simeon. My friend Rob asked me to ask the Elephant Seals how they're doing. Don't worry, Rob. They're doing fine. They asked about your dog?

One tidbit of California political geography that messed me up for a few minutes was the fact that there are actually *two* San Simeons. (Sans Simeon?) The first one you happen across going south-bound is a tiny little street with a few old-looking buildings and a big pier. This pier wanted nothing to do me, or my kind: 

I've since landed in San Simeon, proper. After eating my weight in food, I'm going to hop up to the local state park to camp. Tomorrow should be an easy day --I'm headed to San Luis Obispo.